


Bette Davis Eyes

by jugandbettsdetectiveagency



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Actress!Betty, Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Forbidden Lovers, I did, Ish - I wanted to do more but it's late oops, Old Hollywood Inspired, Probably Historically Inaccurate, holiday fic, no I did not get this idea while riding tower of terror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 00:21:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13135254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugandbettsdetectiveagency/pseuds/jugandbettsdetectiveagency
Summary: Life on the silver screen was everything Betty had been striving for - it looked like perfection. But she should have known that nothing could be as it seemed, and now all she wants is to come back home.





	Bette Davis Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heartunsettledsoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartunsettledsoul/gifts).



> I didn’t resign up for the holiday fic exchange, because I knew that with my vacation, and christmas, and the way I’ve been writing recently that it might not be the best time to give myself limits and restrictions. But, now that I’m home and I got a little idea bug while riding the tower of terror in orlando, I managed to write a rough little something that’s somewhat holiday themed. Or at least, set at christmas. It’s a bit rough, but I’m a little rusty and this is just something fun. Enjoy <3

“Welcome back, Mr Cooper. Mrs Cooper, Miss Cooper.”

“Smithers, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Betty,” she smiles softly, the warm yellow light from the street lamp creating a muted halo around her head. The snow that is falling is already coming down thick and fast, throwing a stark blanket over the humming streets of uptown Riverdale.

“At least once more, Miss Cooper,” Smithers replies wryly, touching the peak of his hat with the tips of his gloved fingers. Betty’s smile turns sad around the corners, almost invisible creases wrinkling the point between her brows.

“Elizabeth, stop fraternising,” Alice, her mother, snaps from her place beneath the latticed oil lantern hanging over the double doors welcoming them to The Pembroke Tower Hotel. “If you must insist that we come back to this godforsaken place for this charity gala of yours, then the least you can do is be accommodating to its benefactors.”

Betty grits her teeth as she turns slowly on her heel, pulling her white, fur shawl tighter around her bare shoulders as she squares them. “Mother, this isn’t my gala. It’s Veronica’s; she’s my friend and I want to support her,” she explains as lightly as she can, trying not to mentally add another scratch into the column counting the times she’s already recited these exact same words to her parents.

“And Veronica has been most accommodating, I assure you. She’s given us the very best suite for the occasion,” Betty finishes, her voice the kind of sugary that leaves acid rising in the back of her throat.

“That’s very kind of you, sweetheart,” Hal says absently to his daughter, not even bothering to cast his eyes in her direction, instead gesturing with a quick flick of his fingers to the porter passing through the lobby. Betty resists the urge to rub away the headache beginning to pound in her temples.

“Support doesn’t mean having to show up in person,” Alice continues to gripe, dramatically clutching at the thick hide making up her coat, drawing it tightly around her neck. For just a moment, Betty imagines the grip to be tighter. A montage of milestones missed flitters behind her eyes and yes, she thinks, not showing up seems to be a Cooper speciality. “I mean, everyone would have been perfectly content to accept our family donation in absentia. As always.” She once again fixes Betty with her steely gaze, hardened like the glaciers belonging in the winter wonderland growing around them. “We could still be in Los Angeles now, rather than this dirt pit.”

Betty winds her fingers into her shawl, wrinkling the fabric beneath tense digits, stiff from more than the icy weather. She should be feeling the chill of the early December evening, Christmas fast approaching and leaving a trail of silver snowflakes in its wake, but instead she feels impossibly hot all over. Her entire body is boiling with an anger that’s mere moments away from being unleashed all over the freshly swept steps of Riverdale’s finest establishment.

The entire Northside portion of the up and coming eastern town, complete with idyllic river and changing leaves worthy of any postcard, is alive and buzzing on this night.

Once the quintessential archetype for small town America, Riverdale had been propelled into the lavish lifestyle lovers’ spotlight in more recent years. Betty would say it all began with significant interest from one Miss Veronica Lodge, daughter of business mogul Hiram Lodge and current society It girl. Brilliant, bored, and beyond wealthy, Veronica had a never-tired mind and a penchant for a makeover, be it for a friend or a slightly forgotten town.

But, if Betty was being truly honest with herself, it was her that made the acquaintance between Riverdale and Veronica. After all, if she hadn’t left her sleepy home town and moved across the country to peruse her dreams, the two would never have met; Betty would never have made a friend for life, and would never have brought her back to the place that made her feel undoubtedly safe.

_“Oh, Betty, this place is just the cutest!” Veronica had squealed, and Betty felt a bloom of pride spread throughout her chest. She took in Veronica’s rounded cheek apples and pristine white smile, framed by ruby red lips, her face aglow in the spring time sun. “It’s so quaint; it’s like something out of one of your movies, it really is.”_

Betty knew more than anyone that this simply wasn’t true.

She’d begged her mother for months to let her go to this audition – just one audition and if she heard nothing more after that then she’d let it go, and they’d never speak about the impossible dream of becoming a Hollywood actress again. If she was being truly honest, there was something about the glamour that held her attention. Everything just seemed so seamless, so effortless, broadcast big and bright on that silver screen. Mr Hadley down at the Bijou knew even before she walked through the door that Betty would be on her way to watch the latest release, gazing up at the strong, beautiful women that danced across the tape reels. Everything looked _perfect_.

And wasn’t that what she had always wanted to strive for; perfection?

She daren’t even hope when she and her mother caught the southbound train that day in April to her one and only shot. Betty knew, had heard the stories, that it was one in a million. No one got it so easy. She was setting herself up for disappointment right from the start and yet… Hope clung to the lift in her shoulders, the upwards tilt of her chin, the black makeup coating her fair lashes. Betty ran a nervous hand down the front of her pretty pink tea dress, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles, and took a breath. She was up next.

Betty had always been told that a true lady was poised, refined, and saved her emotions for the privacy of her own home. But the script didn’t call for such a character, and so Betty set her spine and gave it everything she had.

She hadn’t meant to overhear, casting her eyes towards the polished buckles on her Mary Jane’s while the professionals whispered their opinions, but she couldn’t help but strain her senses, the nerves too much.

_“Did you see those eyes, Steven. Goddamnit, man, we could have another Bette Davis on our hands here. That emotion, these looks… something for the softer characters maybe. A darling, a sweetheart. I want her.”_

The rest of it was a whirlwind. Betty’s feet felt like they never touched the ground. And in a way they didn’t – from rental car, to film set, to red carpet, she barely had time to feel the pavement beneath the soles of her shoes.

Everything was beyond her wildest imagination. Years of watching movies on a screen could never prepare her for the bright lights of the West Coast and the way the film industry seemed to _glitter_ before her eyes, blinding her with sharp blasts of golden light. The film was a much-anticipated success – and then came the offers for more.

The early mornings, the late nights, the promotion, the outings, the high demand. The tabloids, the fans, the demands to uphold that perfection she once thought she craved. When she was on set, Betty watched the paper backdrops of lush green pastures wave in the cool air of the studio fans, the heat from the overhead lights threatening to break persparation across her taut forehead. She walked down fake cobbled streets and opened picturesque doors that held nothing but empty, nonexistent houses behind them and she realised that ‘perfection’ was a con.

She longed for the comfort and privacy that her quiet life in Riverdale afforded her. She wished to walk down a street without the flash of a sparking bulb or the gather of an excitable crowd. She wanted to act for the passion and not for the paycheck, to wear what she wished and to have her hair left to fall as it fancied for just a day.

Of course, once her success started to pick up her mother was all for the promotion of her career, picking up their entire lives and moving the family to Hollywood. Alice Cooper would be damned if she let an opportunity this good slip through their fingers. Being seventeen, all of Betty’s finances were managed by her parents – and mange them they did.

It had taken all of a couple hours for the swelling calm rising up throughout Betty’s body upon returning home to come crashing back down in an icy wave in the form of a gasp.

_“Betty, look, it’s perfect!” Veronica breathed, rushing forwards to stand in front of of The Pembroke apartments, one of the oldest buildings in Riverdale._

_“What is, V?” Betty puzzled, lifting a graceful hand to sheild her her eyes from the highnoon sun as she followed her friend’s gaze._

_“This! This building!” Veronicas cast her arms wide, always having a flair for the dramatics. She rolled her eyes in a move that shouldn’t have been as elegant as it was and turned to explain away Betty’s furrowed brow. “Daddy has been saying he wants me to find an investment that’s all my own, as a way of letting me have a hand in the business now that I’m eighteen. Of course, it’ll be all very minimal on my part, but I’m his only child and he finds it quite hard to deny me anything,” she informed Betty with a sly smirk. “And I was just getting so bored that he said if whatever I came to him with was good enough, he’d look into it.”_

_“And you want The Pembroke?” Betty asked, arching a brow._

_“I don’t want The Pembroke. I want… The Pembroke Tower Hotel. Very chic, no?” Despite the inflection, Betty had learnt to understand when Veronica truly wanted an answer to her questions, and this wasn’t one of those times. “Just think of how many people would love to experience the picture perfect town of Riverdale – home of the infamous Betty Cooper, no less.”_

_“But, it’s not even for sale,” Betty reasoned, trying to quell her rising panic. Camera flashes began to strobe behind her eyelids, Sweetwater River now acting as their backdrop._

_“Oh, Betty. Anything is for sale if you find the right price,” Veronica returned confidently, striding inside the lobby without a further word._

That’s how Betty finds herself on the steps of the newly opened Pembroke Tower Hotel a few days before Christmas, fitted out in a brand new golden gown that fell down her figure like a waterfall (courtesy of Veronica, for the occasion), covering her bare arms and shoulders with thick fur. Everything felt familiar and out of place all at once, setting Betty’s head aspin.

“Mother, how can you say that? This is our home,” Betty tries not to make her voice sound like a whimper. Alice gives her a once over before turning her back.

“Now it doesn’t have to be,” Alice snaps, breezing through the gold-plated doors.

“And intention matters just as much as execution,” Betty murmurs softly, willing herself to speak louder even as she whispers. She convinces herself that the slight quiver to her lower lip was due to the winter chill working its way into her bones, and nothing more, before setting her mouth into the hint of a smile and walking inside.

“Betty, you’re here!” Veronica all but squeales, greeting her with open arms and a kiss on either cheek, lips warm against cold skin. “And beautiful, as ever. Like something from a movie,” she winks. Betty blushes graciously, returning the sentiment. Veronica is a vision in a midnight blue gown, pearls resting against her throat, carrying herself with a poise that one could only attain via birthright, Betty was sure.

“This place looks wonderful, V,” Betty praises, taking in the polished finishes, the thick, woven rugs on the floors, the artfully decorated walls. She couldn’t deny it was the stuff of dreams.

“It turned out perfectly, I know. Daddy is thrilled! And thank you so much for agreeing to sing tonight. It’s going to be the highlight of the event, I just know it.” Veronica kisses her cheek again, swiping away the residue left by her lipstick with a hasty thumb.

“Sing? Elizabeth, why is this the first I’m hearing of this? You know you must run every appearance by me first,” Alice scolds, appearing as if from thin air behind Betty’s shoulder. “I hope you’re being adequately compensated.”

Betty feels her temperature rising once more. “Seeing as this is a charity event, no I am not being _compensated_. I’m doing this because Veronica asked me, and I wanted to contribute in any way I can.” Betty can feel her composure slipping. Her fingers are free from any obstructing fabric now and the tempatation to let her nails find home in the flesh of her palms is all too tempting. Her makeup artist had seen during her first day of filming, those uniform crescent scars standing out starkly againt her skin. Betty had burned with shame while the woman silently worked to cover them up. She fought harder to fight the urge to indulge in her habit, but it was a battle she couldn’t always win.

Alice sighs, the sound not resembling anything akin to resignation. It is hard and sharp, nothing but disapproving. “If you think that you can just…”

Betty doesn’t hear anything more of her chastisement.

The corner of her eye catches a glimpse of dark hair, midnight against the bright red of a porter’s uniform. It rounds the corner and disappears inside the elevator, the doors remaining open like an invitation.

Betty hastily grabs the room key resting on the mahogany counter top and takes a step away from her parents.

“I’m suddenly feeling a chill. It must be all that winter air – you know there’s no shelter from it out here. I’m going to settle in our room for a moment, I’ll see you up there after you’ve finished checking in,” Betty rushes, willing her cheeks not to burn under the intensity of her lie. It was not her finest performance.

Without another word she spins and walks as quickly and elegantly as possible to the elevator, eyes downcast as she steps in and turns, leaning againt the cool, metal railing, sending shivers up her spine as it presses against the skin exposed by the low cut of her dress.

“Penthouse, please,” she says, unable to keep the tremor from her voice.

“Yes, ma’am.” The voice only serves to increase her shivers, low and accomodating. Betty can almost feel the warmth coming from the arm that reaches across her to press the button for her floor, gone all too soon. The doors slide shut with an aching sluggishness, clicking resolutely as they finally close. The floor gives way beneath her heels as Betty feels the capsule begin to move upwards.

The air hangs, heavy and stifling, for just a beat before it seems to vanish altogether.

The next sensation that registers is the feeling of lips against hers, hands gripping the back of her neck, the dip in her waist, a warm breath filling her mouth in the sweetest of sighs. Betty lets out a soft moan, allowing her body to go lax in his embrace, further fitting herself along the line of his front while simultaneously molding to the wall of the elevator. The sound has him pulling back, her chin lifting to chase his kiss, foreheads resting against one another as they try to find the oxygen in the room.

“Juggie,” she whispers almost inaudibly. In saying his name outloud she’s afraid he might not be real, he might be taken away from her. He makes a gentle sound in the back of his throat, something like a whine, and presses his lips back to hers in a series of peppering kisses he just can’t help himself from.

“Betty Cooper, as I live and breathe.” She can feel him smiling against her, his fingers working to wind into the hair at the base of her neck, keeping her close.

“Jug, I’ve missed you,” she breathes, finally letting her eyes open, adjusting to his closeness, “So much.”

“Baby, I missed you,” Jughead replies, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. Her hands come up to clutch at his shoulder blades, digging in just on the side of too hard. The tension in her muscles melts away under the soothing circles he’s rubbing into her skin.

“How long has it been?” Betty asks against the brass buttons of his uniform, her mind running through all the hushed phonecalls, the coded letters. Jughead holds her imperceptibly tighter.

“Far too long,” he mumbles into the crown of her head. She feels the corner of her eyes sting with hot tears, trembling along her waterline and threatening to cascade down her cheeks, carving tracks in the flawless mask coating her face. Betty sucks in a sharp breath through her nose, pulling back to take in his features, shadowed by the overhead light inside the elevator. She can’t believe she’s already wasted a moment not staring at him.

“Oh, Juggie,” she exhales, lifting shaking fingers to dance across his high cheekbones, the dark circles under his eyes, brush the coiled curl rebelling against the product in his hair. His grip on her waist never loosens. “You look…”

Tired.

Betty’s first instinct is to say tired. His cheeks are a little more drawn, his skin a shade more pale beneath his usual olive complexion. The bags beneath his eyes are a fraction more profound than the last time she got to be this close to him, and a dull ache, akin to the one she felt while they were apart, begins to pang deep in her chest.

She longs to ask him how his father is (if his nightmares of war are still as bad), if he’s seen his sister, if he’s still writing. She wants to know what the last thing he thinks about before he goes to sleep is, to see how he stretches when he wakes in the morning. She wants to follow the pattern of moles scattered across his cheeks, his neck, connecting the constellations further down his lean body.

Aside from the immediate changes, Betty can still see him, her Jughead, lingering beneath the stoic surface. The softness around his bright blue eyes, the upward tick at the corner of his lips, saved for a moment of solitude. The hurt in her heart soothes itself with the knowledge that he allows her to see it all – all of him. The floor is still moving, but now it feels as if for an entirely different reason.

“You look like mine,” she sighs instead, digging her fingers into the fabric of his jacket.

Jughead eyes darken as he dives back towards her, pressing a hard kiss to her mouth before moving his lips to her jaw, down her neck, until his tongue can lave at her pulse point. He sucks gently, not enough to leave a mark, she thinks, and Betty’s breath catches deliciously in her throat.

“How much time do we have?” she implores desperately, clutching at him. His mouth leaves her skin for a second, glancing above them before coming back to her.

“Five more floors,” he replies, grazing his teeth along her collarbone. Betty’s head falls back, giving him better access to her skin, feeling the sands of time slipping between her fingers just like the strands of his hair are.

The elevator slows and Jughead pulls away with noticeable reluctance. Betty lifts a hand to her hair, self-consciously smoothing down any tussled knots. He gives her hand one last squeeze before they let go, drifting to opposite sides of the confined space.

“Will you–” Betty swallows. “Are you working the gala?” she asks timidly, cheeks burning.

“Yes.” Betty peeks up at him from the corner of her eye. “You’re gonna be great, Betts.” She can’t help the grin that spreads across her face as the doors slide open. “Meet me at sunset.” Her step falters for a moment before she walks out, watching the doors close again and take him out of sight.

***

“B…” Veronica’s eyes glisten with unshed tears. “You were stunning.” She grips Betty’s hands tightly in hers. Betty’s responding grin is soft, accompanied by the tilt of her head.

“Thank you. I hope everyone enjoyed it.”

Betty had felt her nerves coursing through her frame as she took her place beneath the spotlight. It was blinding, hot, centred solely on her. She tried to suck in discreet gasps of air as she held her place, gliding a hand up the microphone stand and hoping that the tight grip she wanted to place on it wasn’t too noticable to the waiting crowd. Her throat felt as if it were closing, her chest constricted under the weighted expectations for her to perform. She opened her mouth, petrified that no sound would come out…

And then she saw him.

He was standing at the back of the ballroom, a silver serving tray balanced expertly in one hand, loaded with too many flutes of champagne, sending her that secret smile.

This was for them, all of it. They were going to make it, together.

She let her eyes drift closed, the memory of Jughead’s face playing behind her lids, as the first notes from the band rang out.

“It is all anyone is talking about,” Veronica gushes, shaking their clasped hands for emphasis. “Are your parents about? I must formally thank them for their donation.”

Betty fights to keep her face from falling. “Um, no, my mother wasn’t feeling well. They retired early, the journey is catching up with them, I think.” A thrum of panic begings to tingle in her fingers and she promptly lets go of Veronica’s hands, lacing her own fingers together. “Actually, I’m feeling quite weary myself. Would you mind if I said goodnight?” She pulls her lower lip between her teeth.

“Not at all! Goodnight, Betty. Thank you, again. You really were magnificent.” Betty leans in to accept one last kiss on the cheek before Veronica melts back into her adoring crowd.

Betty starts down the corridor, heading for the elevators. She chances one last glance over her shoulder while picking up her pace, sequined gown flapping about her ankles, softly curled hair flying behind her, veering left when the coast appears to be clear.

The Sunset Dining Room is lit only by the light that pours in through the glass-paned doors lining the walls at numerous intervals. The array of tables are covered in pristine white cloths, perfectly shined silverware set up for the morning’s breakfast already. Betty weaves her way through the tables, her destination already in sight. Her hand reaches our and pulls open the door to the patio, a blast of cold air raising goosebumps across her body.

Jughead’s back is to her, curls of smoke appearing above his head. Betty takes a deep breath, pulling in the comforting smell of tobacco that’s mixing with the spice in the winter’s night.

He starts at the feeling of her arms winding around his waist from behind before relaxing into the familiar embrace, rubbing a warm hand across Betty’s chilled forearm. Betty drops her forehead to the dip in his spine, pressing herself close.

“I don’t want to go back,” she whispers after some time, the both of them unmoving in the uninterrupted night. Jughead sighs, the bone at the base of his neck becoming more prominent as he drops his head forwards. Betty stretches up to kiss the jut, relishing in his shiver.

“I saw you, up there on the silver screen,” he says, not turning his her arms but not removing his hand from her skin either. The words rekindle a memory, tinged with equal parts sweetness and sadness, forever bathed in a silvery glow.

_“I think I’ll see you up there one day, on the silver screen.” Betty turned towards the unfamiliar voice, her eyebrows pulling in together in confusion._

_“Excuse me?” she asked the figure a few seats down from hers. The credits were still rolling, the tinny sound of the closing tune echoing against the worn velvet of the Bijou’s theatre._

_The boy in the leather jacket tilted his head towards the screen before them minutely, his eyes – creased intriguingly at the corners – never leaving hers. “Up there, in films. I can see you.”_

_Betty’s mouth was agape. “How did you know I wanted to act?” she enquired suspiciously, narrowing her eyes. It only made the crinkles around his deepen._

_“You look like her.”_

_“Who?”_

_“The girl in all the movies,” he laughed. The sound was rich and layered, and Betty found a giggle of her own slipping past her lips._

_“I bet you say that to all the strange girls you strike up conversations with in the movie theatre,” she retorted with a delicate roll of her eyes. The boy was suddenly in the seat next to her. The fading screen lit up his features and Betty had to suppress a gasp – he was incredibly handsome._

_“Hand on heart,” he said, accompanied by the action. “To no one but you.”_

_She believed him._

“You were incredible, Betty,” Jughead says, his voice sounding almost pained by the confession. “Just like I knew you would be.” She’s already shaking her head against his back.

“It’s not like I dreamed it would be. None of it,” she whines, flattening her palms against his chest to try and rid her fingers of the ache. She can feel his shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. “I hate being away from here, away from you,” she confesses, wishing she could pull him even closer, melt into him forever.

Jughead finally turns in her embrace, blowing out one last billow before stubbing out his cigarette on the stone railing. “Do you still love acting?” he asks. The questions throws her off and she hesitates, her head tilted back to look up into his imploring eyes. “Do you?” he probes.

“Well… yes, more than anything,” she begins, her mind adding the phrase _but no more than you_. Jughead cuts her off before she can voice this part.

“Well then damn it, Betty, you gotta act! You were meant to do this. I’ve seen you, no one even compares,” he mutters furiously, one large hand cupping her cheek roughly, enveloping it. Betty leans into the touch, welcoming it. “You can’t let that go.”

“But it’s not what I want it to be!” she yells, trying and failing to keep her voice low. Her hand comes up to keep his pressed against her face. She turns her head to press a kiss to his palm before bringing it back to cup her cheek. “It’s all… none of it is _real_. There’s so much that comes with it and I can’t, Juggie, I _can’t_. I want to be home, with you, here…” Her chest heaves, her vision swimming.

“Hey,” Jughead croons, seeing the panic rising in a sickening bubble. “Shh, it’s okay,” he soothes, rocking her gently against his chest.

“Even this,” she sobs, burrowing into him. “Even this is a secret. I want everyone and noone to know all at once. I love you, Jughead. Do you know how much trouble I’d be in if someone, if my mother, saw us together like this?”

“I know, baby,” he agrees sadly, swaying them in time to the breeze cutting across the patio. “I’m sorry.” He sounds ashamed, and that only fuels the guilt brewing in the pit of her stomach.

“No, please don’t say you’re sorry,” she whispers. “Not for this, don’t you dare.” The ferocity in her eyes, like a forest set ablaze, makes him smile fondly.

“Okay,” he says easily. She eyes him warily, searching the earnestness in his eyes for a second longer before seeming to deflate, satisfied with what she finds.

“Okay,” she repeats.

“I just want you to be happy. I couldn’t bear it if you weren’t, especially because of me,” he admits, averting his eyes. She knows this guilt comes from somewhere else altogether. He’s been made to feel worthy of abandoning, and Betty finds herself already having made the promise to never let him feel that way again.

“That could never happen. You make me happy, Jughead. This, us, is what always makes me happy.” His bashful smile is worth any heartache it took to get to this very moment in time. He’s staring at her like she’s not quite real, one hand combing through her hair while the other repeatedly strokes over the exposed skin of her back, as if needing a constant reminder she’s standing before him.

His eyes find something above her head, twin spots of pink adorning his cheeks. She follows his gaze, spotting the mistletoe hanging from the doorway over them. Betty lets out an almost delirious giggle and brings his head down to her level, relishing in the meeting of their lips. She knows, despite their seclusion, that they’re being reckless, that someone could stumble upon their meeting. But not an inch of her being can be convinced to care as Jughead runs the tip of his tongue over her lips and she parts them, allowing him access to explore the mouth. She pulls back after a moment, feeling the best kind of dizzy.

“I’ll be eighteen in only a few months. Then no one will be able to stop me from coming back to you,” she whispers, her lips brushing his with each word spoken, like Betty is trying to press her promise right into his skin. She barely sees his smile before Jughead is kissing her again, walking her backwards.

Betty gasps as the cold stone of the decorative alcove hits her skin, but the pain it brings doesn’t dampen the moment – she doesn’t think anything ever could.

Jughead’s fingers burn everywhere they touch her, slipping down from the small of her back, over the curve of her behind, wrapping around the outside of her thigh. She knows that they’ll have to stop soon, slip back into their temporary roles for just a little while longer.

But as the first new flurry of snow hits the high point of her cheek, melts into Jughead’s hair, she can’t bring herself to stop just yet.

 


End file.
